Pathfinder a Zealous Heart

Elder Scrolls RPG

Time to Contemplate

4

JUL/13

Eric regretted what he had done to Arn. It had needed to be done and if the need arose he would do it again, but still he regretted it. Using his magic upon one of his friends in this manner was something that he had never thought he would do. In fact it was something which he had never wanted to do. he trusted Arn to do the right thing, he really did, but the problem was that he didn’t trust Molag Bal to let him do the right thing, and so Eric and frozen him, pulled that accursed mace from his hand and cast it down into the cavernous pits on the mountainside. He would do it again if necessary, but he would hate every moment of it.

On the way back to anvil he didn’t talk much. He was going over, in his own head, what had happened in that mountain stronghold. How so many people could be so easily turned to the whims of a Deadra and not even know it? That was what kept bringing his thoughts back there. Ever since he had held that foul mace, he could see more. Maybe even double of what he had been able to see before. What had happened? Had Molag Bal pushed back the influence of the 9 on him, loosened their grasp enough to expand his sight. But if that were the case, why were his powers still growing. Why was he having nightmares again?

He saw things now. Saw things no living man could, or should know. He saw the first men set foot upon the shores of Skyrim, and the last of them fleeing its destruction pass by in one moment. A thousand upon thousand years of history passed through his mind at night, but with no discernible order or pattern and with little to no context or insight proved. He was able to call up long lost pieces of knowledge but just as quickly, they would fold and fall away from his mind, but one thought, one piece of insight, more than any other, plagued his nights. He saw himself, plummeting towards the ground, from some vast cliff, or tower, or edifice of stone. Headlong he plunged, down towards the earth, the sound of his own heart beat drowning out the noise of the rushing wind. He held something tightly, clutched close to him as he fell, fell towards his death. This however was not the worst of it. The worst of it, the thing that awoke him every night on the long road back to Anvil, drenched in cold sweat, was he expression on his own face in this vision. Content. Eric woke in terror every night on the road to Anvil, knowing he would go to his end, willingly.